


The Cage

by Aiffe



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Angst, Bending loss, Cage Fights, Hate, M/M, Misery, Non-sexual sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiffe/pseuds/Aiffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tahno gets into cage fighting. Not as a replacement for pro-bending or to make money, but as an outlet for rage and helplessness. Or, “in which Tahno does not cope with his trauma nicely, and is not nice.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cage

There are three rules.

One: no bending.

Two: no weapons.

Three: you win when your opponent yields, loses consciousness, or dies.

 

-

Tahno leans against the chain link fence at the edge of the cage. Usually he’d try to get closer to the center—he’s got some decent muscle, but his strengths still lie in weaving and dodging—but this is how he shows he’s cocky.

He’s a far cry from the pro-bender who dominated the arena for the last four years. He’s stripped, in more ways than one. He wears only simple black shorts and a coat of oil, to give his opponent less to grab onto. There are bruises showing on his ribs, and he knows they’ll be targets. There’s another, cut open, across his cheekbone, that was almost a broken nose. Deep, scabbed scratches crisscross his arms, reminders of the guy who tore his way out of a chokehold with his nails. Fighting doesn’t stop here when someone draws blood. If you don’t want to see people get hurt, then go home.

His hair is cropped short, hastily done and messy. It was his trademark in pro-bending, but here it’s just a liability. He didn’t have it done professionally. Tahno doesn’t care about being pretty anymore.

There’s an intensity in his eyes that wasn’t there before, too, a simmering rage, an indifference to pain.

They’re not screaming his name, here; they’re not screaming anyone’s name. The dull roar of the crowd is just a wordless shout. They don’t care who wins. They’re calling for blood.

His opponent, a man introduced as Gao, is a big guy, but shorter than him. All power, no reach. Tahno’s heart skips a beat with a rush of adrenaline.

“Are you going to fight, or just pose like a model, pretty boy?” Gao says.

Tahno just crooks his fingers at him. “Come and get it.” He gives Gao his best smug grin, the one people want to wipe off his face with their fists.

Gao takes the bait, and lunges. Tahno lashes out with a kick to the gut that strikes home, but barely slows him down, and throws himself into a roll to dodge a punch, hearing it strike the metal fence that had been behind his head.

He’s in the center of the ring, now, ready to dance. If they start grappling instead of throwing strikes, he’s screwed. Once that pressing weight is on him, he knows he’s done.

Gao comes at him again, and this time Tahno more or less stands his ground, dodging as much as he can, and getting in a few more strikes. It’s like punching a brick wall, and he feels it in his fists. The ring here considers gloves to be a “weapon.” Not like that wasn’t unjustified. There were people who’d use gloves to hide brass knuckles or tacks.

There’s a punch he can’t dodge in time, and Tahno throws up both arms to block, wincing as the blow opens his scabbed-up wounds. He staggers backwards, weaves around another strike, and tries to keep enough space between them to make his reach an advantage. He’s losing ground, and doesn’t like it.

He draws Gao in, spins around, and strikes his back with his elbow as he passes him back towards the center of the cage. He’s surprised how fast Gao recovers from that, and comes back around at him.

The crowd is yelling, impatient.

A few more punches, blocked and dodged, and Tahno gets a good one in, right on the kisser. But Gao doesn’t let him pull back, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him in closer, and then Tahno’s feet are swept out from under him. He hits the concrete hard, and just barely has the presence of mind to try to roll out of the way in case Gao is planning to bodyslam him.

Tahno tries to get to his feet, but Gao’s fist slams into his temple, and Tahno hits the ground again. He’s lost a few seconds when he opens his eyes. It doesn’t count if he doesn’t stay out, though.

Gao’s foot is on his chest. “Yield.”

“A gentleman,” Tahno coughs. He tastes blood. Must’ve hit his jaw on the way down.

Gao puts more weight onto his ribs. “We can do this any way you like.”

Tahno’s starting to black out again. He looks up at Gao, and doesn’t see his face, silhouetted against the light. Instead he fancies he sees a bone-white mask looking down at him. He spits bloody foam, and does not yield.

Instead, he swings his foot up, twisting his waist, and kicks Gao right between the legs. Gao flinches enough for Tahno to roll out from under him, and Tahno tries to drag himself to his feet. He stumbles, falls to his knees, and half-climbs up Gao, who takes advantage of this close range to punch him in the side, right on his old bruises. Tahno ignores it. He doesn’t think he can hurt much more, and right now, that gives him the advantage.

Without the sense for strategy or fear of pain, Tahno has only one thing left, and that’s the pit of burning hatred in his gut. There’s a reason he stepped into this cage to begin with, and it wasn’t the paltry prize money.

His leg twists around Gao’s, forcing his knees to buckle. For a moment Tahno is on top, punching Gao in the head as hard as he can, but then Gao rolls him over, and it’s like being crushed under a platypus bear. But Tahno doesn’t stop punching, strike after strike, a primal growl deep in his throat. Gao punches him back, a forceful blow meant to put him to sleep for the night, but Tahno is like a thing possessed. There’s a hand closing on his throat, and the world is going dark, but Tahno keeps going, and after one final punch to the nose, Gao slumps on top of him, and the hand on his throat goes slack.

The crowd roars like the rush of blood in his ears. He can’t hear anything above the din. He doesn’t hear the bell. He isn’t exactly sure what happens next. His fists hurt and there’s a bitter knot in his chest, and someone is screaming his name for once, _finally_ , but it’s not to cheer him on. He’s straddling Gao, and there’s blood on his hands and on the cement floor of the cage. Gao’s face is purplish and swollen; he’s out cold. For a moment Tahno wonders if he’s dead, but he can see his breath making bubbles in the blood on his nostrils.

“You’re done, Tahno, get out of there.”

Tahno looks around blearily. The crowd—are they chanting ‘kill’?—the judge, holding his money. It takes a moment to appreciate that he’s won. He gets off Gao and stands up. His knees are shaking. He doesn’t think he has another punch in him.

For a moment, for the night, the wound is drained. The hate is bearable.

-

He takes a moment to lean against the wall in the alley outside, breathe in the bracingly cold night air, and fish around in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Hey, Tahno.”

Tahno glances out of the corner of his eye, but he already knows who it is. Shaozu walks towards him, bundled up and shivering.

“I thought I told them not to let you in,” Tahno grumbles.

“You’ll notice how I’m not ‘in.’”

Tahno tries to shrug, and winces. The pain is starting to settle in. He doesn’t want to stay here and chat. “I don’t know what to tell you, Shao.” He finally looks at Shaozu head-on, letting him get his first good look at him in the dim alley light.

“Spirits, Tahno, your face,” Shaozu exclaims.

He’s finally found a cigarette, and Tahno holds it between his swollen lips and fumbles with the lighter. His bruised and bloodied fingers don’t do a very good job with it, and he can’t flick the flame to life. Again and again he scratches over the wheel, his timing bad, making only the occasional spark. He glances up at Shaozu, and sees him watching him mishandle the lighter, a tense, hungry look in his eyes.

“You’re going to die in there,” Shaozu says.

“How do you know I didn’t kill the other guy?” Tahno says. He doesn’t say it lightly. He has no idea if Gao will make it through the night.

“And what does that get you!” Shaozu demands, shouting now. “What, you think Amon is going to step in that cage with you and let you act out your little power fantasy? What are you _doing_ to yourself?”

Tahno continues to flick the lighter absently. He thinks about throwing a punch at Shaozu’s loud mouth. _Punch Shaozu?_ he thinks, then, _sure, why the fuck not._ But his arms feel like wet noodles.

Something in Shaozu snaps, and he closes his hands over Tahno’s, silencing the impotent little clicks of the lighter. “Stop,” he says, a bit of desperation in his voice. “Tahno. You’re not the only one who’s hurting.” He pulls the lighter from Tahno’s hand gently, and pockets it. “This…this isn’t just about you. It’s not fair of you to make it all about your grand drama.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? You think this, and me telling you to fuck off every night, is some kind of cry for attention?”

“ _Yes_ , and it—”

Tahno swings a punch. But Shaozu’s reflexes are still decent, and he blocks. It isn’t that hard. Tahno has only enough force behind it to menace tissue paper. But Shaozu looks at him, astounded. “Did you just try to _hit_ me?”

“I’m not sure what you expected,” Tahno says, glaring at him with dark, sunken eyes.

“Better than this, that’s for damn sure,” Shaozu spits, pushing Tahno off him. “I’m your friend, Tahno. I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t have friends,” Tahno says.

“Tahno. There’s probably only two people in the world who can understand what you went through. What you’re going through. I know why you’re acting this way, listen to me, I _know_.”

“Yeah,” Tahno drawls, “we went through hell together, and now we’re besties. Listen, Shao, let me remind you what we were like, since your memory’s gone to shit since Amon took your bending. We were teammates, and damn good at it. We don’t have a team anymore. You and Ming hung off my coattails because I was talented, which I’m not now, and because you liked to watch me being mean to other people. Well, I’ve got no one else to be mean to now. We didn’t have anything that went deeper than being convenient to each other. You’re no longer convenient. We were terrible people who liked being terrible together, and now we’re paying the price.” His voice breaks on that last word, and he stops, though he might have had more to say.

His fist might never have made contact with Shaozu’s face, but he looks like any of Tahno’s fallen foes in the moment he lands the hit that seals his victory. “You can’t really,” he says softly, barely more than a breath, then comes back with the last weapon in his arsenal, the one Tahno didn’t think he’d have the balls to use. “What about that night?”

He doesn’t mean the night of the finals match. Tahno knows what he means.

“Heh,” Tahno says, and runs a finger down Shaozu’s shirt, to the pocket where he has his lighter. He retrieves it without Shaozu putting up any resistance, the sensuousness of the gesture blatant and entirely unlike his demeanor until just now. When he pulls back, that affection slams shut like a door.

“Did you really think that was special to me, Shao?”

He walks away without waiting for a response. He’s two for two. He gives the lighter a good flick and finally gets a flame to light his cigarette with, and with every step feels his history with Shaozu turn to ash.

It’s not a nice feeling, but it’s a good one.

-

On, then, to the last stop of the night before he can go home and sleep.

Tootega’s Lodge is healing in the real old Northern Water Tribe fashion. Tootega has skin like old, worn leather, sun-beaten and deeply lined and tough. She was around when Ozai was still a name to  strike fear into people’s hearts, when Republic City was Yu Dao, when women waterbenders never bent water to fight. Tahno isn’t sure how he feels about that kind of tradition—he’s met some women waterbenders who made mincemeat of him in the ring, and the thought of Avatar Korra restricting herself to healing touches is just absurd to the point of hilarity. As for learning healing himself, he—well, that’s moot now. But Tootega knows her healing, that’s for sure.

He plunks his prize money on the front desk, and is admitted into the back. It’s decorated in Water Tribe style, all pelts and blue tapestries. He sits on a polar bear dog pelt, thinking with a slight smirk of the Avatar’s pet.

“Tahno,” Tootega says, entering the exam room. “Did you get yourself all roughed up again?” There’s a bit of disapproval in her tone, but Tahno feels a lot better about that than when it came from Shaozu. Maybe it’s because he knows he pays Tootega to pretend she cares.

“Don’t complain. It’s good business,” he says, and starts unfastening his shirt. The fastenings aren’t even all done—his fingers hurt too much—and they’re not much easier to undo. He fumbles with the knots in loops, at one point pulling his shirt up to his mouth and biting them. He’d just rip them, but he’s not sure he has the strength to do that either, and it’d be embarrassing to try that and fail.

Tootega tuts at him, and helps him with the fastenings. He tries to slide the opened shirt off his shoulders, but winces and recoils, and again Tootega helps him. “Do I need to help with the pants too?” she asks.

“I think I can manage,” Tahno says, slipping off his boots first, then his pants. He’s completely naked now, but it doesn’t feel weird. Tootega is a medical professional, and besides, she’s like a million years old. Her firm, gnarled fingers run over his skin, deft and experienced.

“You walked here?” she asks.

Tahno nods.

Tootega shakes her head in further disapproval. “Does it hurt here?” She prods his black-and-blue ribs, hard, and he doubles over with a cry. She knows what she’s doing, and that was definitely not accidental.

“ _Yes_!” Tahno cries out, his voice wavering with pain. “It hurts there! It hurts everywhere! Just fix it!”

She moves a basin of water closer to him, and Tahno watches its glimmering surface desperately.

“Your ribs are broken,” Tootega says.

“Then I’ve come to the right place,” Tahno replies. “Or what, did I not pay you enough for that?”

“They’ve been broken for days. You should have come sooner.”

“It’s cheaper to get it all done at once. I’m only going to get hurt more.” He watches her sink her weathered hands into the basin, and the water starts to glow. “Besides. Only so many of your lectures I can take in one week.”

“Tahno,” she says, the glow fading, “if you don’t shut up, I can’t concentrate. Do you want healing or not?”

Tahno smirks wryly, and nods. “Yeah,” he says, and is silent when Tootega waits a few seconds to see if he has any other smart remarks.

The glow starts again, and Tootega raises her hands out of the basin, the water shimmering around them like a living thing. Then her hands are on him, and he lets out a shaking sigh. He lets her guide him back down onto the pelt, and goes utterly limp as the water’s light soaks into his bruises, courses through the meridians of his body.

It’s no small job he’s brought to her. Tootega works him tirelessly for over two hours. It’s not instant, water-healing, it’s like the sea smoothing a stone, each pass taking away a bit more of the jagged edge. But it’s not just the cessation of pain that brings him relief. Healing is an internal art, and for those precious hours, her bending is _inside_ him; the connection, the chi of the water. He soaks it up like a dried-up houseplant being watered, and doesn’t move a muscle, for fear of dispelling the illusion.

The tide rises in him, welling up until it can’t help but overflow, spilling from his eyes as he stares up at the wooden beams of the lodge ceiling, his face slack. Tootega moves up his body to heal the bruises on his face, and he sees her pause, a blurry mantle of white hair shining in the lamplight, a furrowed brow. She dips her hands in the basin to hold the water for a moment, and dabs at his face with a cloth. Then she continues healing him, and he’s grateful. No confrontation, no pity, but not callousness either. She saw, she acknowledged without judging, and she went on.

It’s why he comes to her.

When she finishes, he just wants to lie there forever, feeling whole. He moves slowly, pulling his clothes on like a glacier going for a walk. Tootega takes away the basin, and he’s still there when she comes back.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

“Like new.”

The smile cracking her face doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m only treating the symptoms, aren’t I. It’ll spread its poison again, and you’ll be back, with as bad or worse.”

This time he doesn’t make any comments about it being good for business. He remembers coming to her, that night. The night she tried to really fix him.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, and gets to his feet. It’s strange to move without pain, so comfortable he wants to go to sleep. For the first night in a while, he feels like sleep might actually not give him any trouble.

He takes a deep breath, now that his ribs aren’t broken and he can. This is his reward on the nights when he wins.

-

 He goes back when the stillness in him becomes its own kind of pain, when he’s desperate for any kind of sensation to fill the void. He’s tried other things before. Lying in a bath of ice-cold water comes closest to taking the edge off. He avoids alcohol. The last time he got drunk he couldn’t stop crying.

The clamor of the underground ring greets him like an old friend. The crowd, faceless in the dark around the cage, stomps and shouts, beating out a rhythm like a pulse, taking over for his failed heart and getting his blood moving again. He’s volunteered first, like he always does. That means he has no idea who he’s up against.

His opponent steps up and walks into the ring, a man introduced as Kang. He’s new to Tahno, average build, probably pushing forty, with a hard-bitten edge to him that looks like he’s with one of the Triads or the police. The bell is struck; the match begins. People in the audience are hastily placing their bets.

They pace around each other, sizing each other up. A thrill runs through Tahno’s body. He throws the first punch, testing Kang’s reflexes. Kang parries, moving seamlessly into his own punch, which Tahno turns to avoid. Kang didn’t put too much weight behind his punch, though, and there’s no opportunity to unbalance him when it doesn’t connect. His footwork is excellent. He clearly knows a thing or two about fighting.

Tahno’s form had been getting sloppy since before he’d lost his bending. Pro-bending let him get away with a lot of improvisation. Most of what he does now is just anger and instinct. But the forms are still in there, deep in his muscle memory, whether he wants them or not. When Kang comes at him with a series of punches, Tahno falls into a stance and uses a move straight out of classical waterbending, turning one punch then another aside, and finally swinging up as if to do a water whip, but changing it to a punch at the last minute.

Kang staggers backwards, hit hard, but quickly recovers into a ready stance. Tahno kisses his fist, feeling smug. This night’s off to a decent start.

“You fight like a waterbender,” Kang says.

Tahno’s a bit surprised Kang doesn’t know who he is—he doesn’t use a pseudonym, if people have a problem with Tahno of the Wolfbats, they can come and get it—but then, he just sort of assumes everyone followed his pro-bending career. He supposes there might be people who don’t give a shit. “I guess ‘like’ is the operative word,” he says.

Kang seems dubious. “How do I know you’re not a bloodbender?”

“Because I couldn’t bend a dewdrop, sweetie,” Tahno says, the false cheer of his tone only thinly veiling his anger. “Read a newspaper sometime, you might learn something.” This discussion is over, as far as he’s concerned. He lashes out, kicking with sudden fury.

The first kick strikes a glancing blow as Kang doesn’t quite get out of the way in time, then Kang catches his foot as he goes in for another and throws him. Tahno just rolls with it, barely hurt, and comes up swinging.

They trade a few more blows, then he gets too close and Kang tries to pull him into a grip, their faces close enough for Tahno to clearly see Kang’s pockmarks and stubble in the harsh floodlight. Tahno stomps on Kang’s foot before he can bring him down. Their feet are bare, but between Tahno’s heel and the hard concrete is not a good place to be, and Kang releases Tahno, stumbling backward with a limp.

Tahno would later wonder what exactly happened next. Maybe he got too cocky. Whatever it is, he doesn’t see the punch coming, and gets hit square in the jaw, an uppercut that snaps his neck back. Another strike before he can recover, and he’s down. Kang kicks him in the gut with his good foot. He’s near the edge of the ring, and the kick is hard enough to knock him into the chain link fence, before falling back to the ground.

The pain is sudden, intense. For a moment every nerve is alive and screaming. It’s beautiful. Drowns out everything else.

Tahno manages to regain his feet, but he’s slower this time. He plays it too safe, blocking more than striking. Kang bears down on him, the hits adding up. He’s gotta take a risk, gotta put his chips down, or he’s never going to end this favorably, but he can’t find an opening. He loses patience and just dives at him with all he has, and the next thing he knows he’s on the ground again, the smack of hard concrete knocking the wind out of him and sending a new shock of pain through him.

The next thing he sees is Kang’s foot coming at his face, and that’s the last thing he sees for a while.

-

Everything hurts.

Tahno opens his eyes blearily. He’s on the cushions in the back. Where they let fighters sleep it off if it doesn’t look like they’re dying. Not the first time he’s woken up here.

There’s no more sound of the crowd. They must have gone home. He’d have been out at least half an hour then. Maybe more.

He checks for his teeth with his tongue. All are still reporting for duty. For now. But he tastes blood. Must’ve bitten his lip. He shifts a bit on the cushions. Someone dressed him in his street clothes. Nice of them.

Somewhere across town, his bed is calling to him. He just wants to curl up in it and die. He tries to move and groans. Why does bed have to be so _far_?

As he props himself up, Tahno finally notices he isn’t alone in this room. Ming is watching him, silent, perfect poker face. Tahno feels the pit of rage burning in his gut again, and doesn’t even know if it’s Ming he’s mad at.

“What are you doing here?” Tahno asks, his voice coming out less intimidating than he’d hoped. He sounds tired.

“Making sure you’d wake up. The guy in charge said you wouldn’t want to go to a hospital, but if you didn’t come to in an hour….”

“Well. I’m up,” he says, meeting Ming’s gaze coldly. “You can go back to wherever the fuck it is that you’ve been.”

He’d only seen Ming once since the night of the finals match. He doesn’t remember a lot of what he said, but it was probably horrible. Only Shaozu bothered with him after that.

It’s not that he blames Ming for abandoning him or anything. If anything, Ming was the smarter one for taking the hint.

But Ming doesn’t go. He doesn’t offer to help Tahno up, either. He just stands there. Watching. Like he’s looking down on Tahno because he hasn’t remembered how standing works yet. Well, fuck him.

“We need to talk, Tahno. And you need to get healed first. Is there a healer you go to?”

Tahno shakes his head. “No healer.”

“If you’re broke, I can pay for it.” A pause. “What did you spend your winnings on, anyway? Drugs? Hookers? Gambling?”

Tahno groans. “None of your business.” He’s far from broke, actually, but that would only bring up its own set of questions, and he’s not going to give Ming the opening. “Did Shaozu put you up to this?”

“What makes you think Shaozu has any love left for you?”

“So why get lonely for my company all of a sudden? Our old fans get tired of throwing you pity fucks now that you’re not a pro-bender anymore?”

Tahno’s reaching, and he knows he’s missed the target, staring at Ming’s impassive face. Should have known that wouldn’t work anyway. Hell, Ming was the one who’d turned _him_ down, the first five hundred times or so.

He’d been right to. Tahno was never serious about it until the five-hundredth-and-first time.

“Fine, if you won’t leave, I _will_ ,” Tahno says, and tries to get to his feet. It doesn’t go as well as it did in his head. He makes it about halfway, then has a dizzy spell and buckles back down on the cushions.

And Ming just stands there. Watching him be a pathetic failure. His hair and clothes, while not dressy, are still perfect, with his perfect mole and perfect fucking cheekbones. Tahno hates him more than he’s hated anything for a while, which is saying a lot.

He wants to hurt Ming, to say something that will make him flinch and look at him with loathing instead of pity or superiority. But he can’t think of anything good. Maybe he should have listened more. He doesn’t even know what Ming’s weak spots are.

“I don’t need you,” Tahno says finally. “And I don’t want your ‘help.’”

“I needed you,” Ming says, but it doesn’t sound whiny or clingy. He’s calmly recounting a betrayal—the day when he thought Tahno would have his back, and he didn’t. When Tahno was too busy getting the shit kicked out of him to help anyone. “But I guess I got through it without you.”

His words are unfathomable to Tahno. There’s no ‘getting through’ this. There’s only finding outlets for the part deep inside him that’s constantly screaming.

“You didn’t have as far to go,” Tahno says. “You were barely even a bender before. I would have kicked you off the team years ago if you weren’t good in bed. So your original skillset is intact; I’m sure you can make a fine career out of it.” There isn’t even any truth in what he’s saying anymore, except maybe the part about being good in bed. The only thing talking now is the hate.

“Someday soon, if it hasn’t happened already, you’re going to wake up and realize no one can tolerate being near you, not even yourself,” Ming says, his voice even and calm and the ring of horrible truth in every word. “And when that happens, the only person within reach of your hate is going to be you, and you’re going to rip yourself apart until there’s nothing left of you, and there will be no one else to distract you from that task, and no escape from your own punishment.” He grabs Tahno by the collar, and hauls him up to pin him against the wall. “You think I don’t know why you fight? You do it to lose as much as to win. ‘No healer,’ is it? So you like pain?” He slams his fist into Tahno’s gut, and Tahno moans miserably. The fresh burst of pain shoots through his body, bringing its strange brand of relief.

“Go on,” Tahno chokes out. “Hit me again.” He doesn’t even know if that’s a taunt, to make Ming feel like a bully for hitting someone in his condition, or if he really just wants him to do it. It isn’t just the violence, either. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the feel of Ming’s strong hands.

Ming releases him, and Tahno manages to keep his feet under him, leaning heavily on the wall.

“Goodbye, Tahno.”

A lump swells in Tahno’s throat, choking him. His head feels like it’s gonna explode. It’s passed the point of ‘good pain.’ He wants to open his own skull just to breathe. He sees Ming walking away, hears the beat of his footsteps, and doesn’t have a single barb left to throw. Ming saw straight into him, saw all the poison he’d been carrying, and didn’t waste any more time on him because he didn’t deserve it.

Ming is right.

“Wait,” Tahno chokes out. The word seems to crack his throat in half. “Please…Ming.”

Somehow he doesn’t expect Ming to stop. There’s no more mercy in him, and he doesn’t expect it of anyone else. Begging didn’t do him any good with Amon. All it does is make him a pathetic fool.

Ming stops, and Tahno hears his steps coming closer again. Tahno meets his eyes. He tries not to think of what a mess he looks right now. “If you’re getting in one last parting shot, just do it,” Tahno says, his voice wavering.

“Idiot,” Ming mutters, and pulls Tahno into an embrace. Tahno slumps into his arms, and the first sob breaks through, racking his battered frame. He’s clinging to Ming’s broad chest, getting tears and blood and snot all over his _perfect_ clothes.

“I don’t want to be weak,” Tahno rasps.

Ming kisses the top of his head, by some small mercy missing the bruises. “I know.”

-

Somehow Ming drags him into his Satomobile and to his apartment. He’s actually never seen Ming’s place before. They’d just always done everything at Tahno’s penthouse suite. Tahno looks, bleary and punch-drunk, at the rooms like they’re some kind of alien landscape. There’s some Water Tribe furnishings. Maybe Ming just likes them, or maybe he’s part Water Tribe himself. Tahno never even bothered to ask.

The floor is a solid slab of stone, the grain of it warped in stretches and whorls from repeated bending. _Ugh_ , Tahno thinks, _it’s even worse than mine._

He follows Ming into his bedroom, not knowing what the script for this situation is. They say makeup sex is the best sex, but Tahno doesn’t even know if he can get it up in the state he’s in. Maybe Ming will just fuck him anyway.

“You can get cleaned up if you like, and there’s some pajamas in the closet,” Ming tells him, getting changed for bed.

Tahno just strips down to his underwear and sits on the futon, not feeling up to any of that. “What are we doing, Ming?” he asks finally. “What is this?”

Ming shrugs. “Dunno.” He sits behind Tahno, and wraps his arms around him. “You asked me not to leave, so….I was always bad at saying no to you.”

Tahno scoffs. “I recall you doing little else for months.”

“I mean the times when you mean it.”

“Oh.” Then, “So, this is a second chance at what, trying to save me?”

“I don’t think I can,” Ming says sadly. “That’s something you’ve gotta do.”

“Well, then I’m fucked.”

Ming sighs, and leans in closer, his breath ghosting the short-cropped hairs on the back of Tahno’s head. “I just miss you, Tahno.”

“Yeah,” Tahno says. “I miss me too.”

They end up lying there in bed silently, Ming’s arms a gentle cage around Tahno’s waist. Tahno hears Ming’s breathing change as he falls asleep, and he lies there awake, crying silently. He resents Ming for it, but clings to him tighter in the dark anyway.

Tahno doesn’t sleep well that night. Exhaustion takes him for a bit, but he surfaces too soon. He lies awake, staring at the pattern of street lights through the blinds in the strange room, feeling the bruises come in like a photo developing, listening to Ming breathe next to him. Again and again he sleeps lightly, fitfully, waking from the pain or from the sense of unfamiliarity or for no reason at all.

When he wakes to the gray predawn light, he slips out of bed and puts his clothes back on. They’re cold from lying on the floor all night. Tahno stands up stiffly, and sees that Ming is still sleeping. He slinks away like a stray cat, and sleeps most of the day in his own bed.

That night he goes to the cage again. Ming doesn’t come to see him, that night or any other night.


End file.
